Chapter 7 - Ira - Wrath

Ira - Wrath

I'm sitting behind the gravestone of a man I've never met, and I wonder if he hates me for it--if he's looking upward through decomposing eyes and cursing my trembling form. It's disrespectful to walk on graves, its probably worse to hide behind them, and it would all make so much more sense if I knew how and why I got here.

My hair is sticking uncomfortably to my forehead, it's greasy and tangled and mixed with sweat even in the chilled fog of this October morning. My hands are tinted red, and I don't know why. My knuckles are bruised--they're purple and cracked and the tale of how they got there is tucked irretrievably within the wrinkles and creases of limbs that won't stop shaking. There is something cold and metallic pressing against my ribs, but I fear it will explain these last few days, and this occasion, and something deep within me continuously promises that ignorance is bliss.

There's a party gathering across this field of souls, but they are only black and gray smears upon a bright green canvas. I want to cry and steal their sorrow as a casket makes its descent, but I am so fracking tired and my eyes are slipping closed. This is a darkness understood only by the bodies lying six feet beneath me.

My lips pulled life from a cigarette that didn't taste normal or comforting as I leaned against a dirty brick wall. I was the epitome of stealth in my black attire, hiding amidst dumpsters and the ghosts of former crimes as I waited for you to leave the low-rent apartment complex. But you weren't coming and the courage I had mustered was dissolving into the air--falling to the worn asphalt with the embers of this half smoked cigarette.

I was sick of waiting, sick of you and your drugs and your sex. I was sick of all of this and something had to end here today. Throwing my smoke to the ground, I crunched out the flame as I emerged from the shadows that had never felt more like home. The steps were loud and telling as I took the fire escape stairs to a cracked window on the third floor, my conscious begging to turn around and go home.

Sliding the glass aside, I crawled into a one bedroom apartment, nearly losing my stomach at the sight of you, needle in hand, about to fulfill your latest fix. Things weren't going that way today though, love. Today was about me. I knocked the syringe from your grasp and snapped a quick and breathy, "not a word" before you had even had the chance to object.

"I hate you." I spat, saliva and emotion flying from the tip of my razor sharp tongue. Within the pocket of my coat my fingers rested coolly on the smooth barrel of the gun inside. "I fracking hate you."

You got up to move but I shoved you back into a wall that threatened to crack under the pressure. "I hate you and your fracking pedestal." You laughed, and the bile within me churned. You were asking, begging, dying for me to show you that I meant business tonight. I pulled the weapon from my chest, heart and soul attached to each of the seven bullets within it, and pointed it towards your beautiful face. "I hate your drugs and your vodka." I slapped the gun against your shaved head, for good measure or to steady my hands or to let you know how much I hated you. I'm not sure which. "I hate when you leave me broken. I hate that you think I'll never be as good as you are. As I already am."

My heart must have found a path to my skull as I slept, for its rhythmic beating plagued my brain with evenly-timed throbs of pain. My vision was blurry, my equilibrium loudly protesting as I attempted to reach my feet. The party that had not-so long ago wept began to return to their cars as a new headstone gleamed brightly, the light of a mocking sun shining upon its surface. The heavy object within my coat pocket hit my chest repeatedly as I walked towards the new grave.

Thud. "I hate your pride."
Thud. "I hate your gluttony."
Thud. "I hate your envy."
Thud. "I hate your sloth."
Thud. "I hate your greed."
Thud. "I hate your lust."

I finally came upon the grave, and my memories, though short and choppy and unbelievable, began to flood my brain. I fell to my knees and it all made sense. It was all so fracking crystal clear as I stared at your name, written in perfected block letters upon the headstone. It was the last moment of real, lasting sanity that I would ever feel. Because now my mind was jumbled. My brain was sending my body messages that were incoherent and pointless. I was blinking madly, it was so bright. It was cold, and I quivered. I pulled roughly at my hair. "I hate your sin." I began to chant. "Pride, gluttony, envy, sloth, greed, lust. Pride, gluttony, envy, sloth, greed, lust. Pride, gluttony, envy, sloth, greed, lust." I didn't know if I'd ever be able to stop.

Something was missing though, something big, something important, something that belonged to me and only me. I still don't know what happened, how my hands were stained such a bright, bloody red and how a nearly empty shotgun had found its way into my pocket. Every night, when I come back here, hiding from a society that would call me a killer, I run my questioning fingers over the deep, home-made embellishment that sits lovingly beneath your name.



WRATH


These moments are the only pieces of my life when I feel like nothing is missing at all.

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